Penultimate Gas

So it wasn't really the "Ultimate" before you added "Invigorate" then was it?

Valet Parking

The limousine driver is the natural enemy of the valet parking attendant.

They want self-drivers whose cars need valet parking. (We obviously negate that.)

They want self-drivers to provide them tips. (Ditto.)

They want self-drivers who don't block their driveways. (Limos are always hanging around constipating things.)

They want lady self-drivers so they can check out the view as they alight their car. (Most of us are blokes.)

In summary, limousines are an impediment to the valet-dude's perfect world filled with gigunda-tipping hotties in short skirts driving Lamborghini Gallardos. (Fair enough. Sorry guys, I'm just doing my job.)

Cruising

There is something delicious about Saturdays. They're full of promise, an uncharted space of possibility.

Even working on a Saturday feels different. It's lighter, more optimistic, even if your working day starts at 3:00 am like mine did last weekend.

The job was to collect two newlyweds from their honeymoon cruise after the ship docked at Port Everglades. Port Everglades is the name some marketing genius dreamed up for Fort Lauderdale's cruise terminal. I had to be there by 8:00 am, necessitating the early start to allow for the trip, refuelling, coffee stops, and any one of the million things that can go wrong in a 230 mile trip in the early hours.

Actually, I rather like the very early starts. It's like you're on the cusp of something big and important, something that can't wait for regular hours. A spy mission, or a Shuttle launch perhaps.

Okay, so collecting an entertaining young couple from a cruise isn't quite in that league, but it's a kind of fun, nonetheless.

A Saturday adventure kind of fun, and not a bad lark at all.

Starbucks dilemma

Wombat, I feel like some Starbucks before we get going.

Yes sir. The usual?

Sure. And a blueberry muffin. And an O.J. And get something for yourself.

Got it. Thanks. I'll have a coffee too.

So began last Friday, at the start of a three-hour trip from my side of Florida to Palm Beach with The Boss's best customer.

He's a brusque man. When working, he's a model of concentration, and there's no time he's not working. Day or night, if not on the phone, he's tapping away at the computer in the back of the town car.

Friday was a little different. I'm normally taking him to, or collecting him from, an airport, exhausted, or hyped, or both. But it was daylight, for a start, and he didn't have a killer deadline to meet, so he was more relaxed - noticeably calmer, in fact, which augured well.

Usually I opt out of customers' offers of joining them in food or drink. For me, it alters the relationship, moving away from the clear-cut driver/driven game to....well, that's the thing. I'm not sure where it takes it. We're not friends, because they know nothing about me. We're not colleagues, because we don't work together. There's no way to know where I stand, which underlines the fact that role-play defines all of our interactions.

If only slightly, the nature of our relationship changed that day, not just because we shared a coffee. We joked about this and that. He laughed about his small bladder. We remarked on what good time we made by taking the back way. It was like the rhythm of the road and the open space allowed us both to take a break from our roles.

And how pleasant it was.

I love road trips.

St Pete Sunset

At The Bossman's shop we have nine limousines including the party bus, and six drivers. Two of the chauffeurs are part-time, the others have other jobs or businesses.

It's a smart way to run given that weekends see the most limousine jobs, when everyone can work, and weekdays are generally airport transfers and other town-car work. We're all flexible enough that Harry can almost always crew the jobs. Almost always.

Sundays everyone is exhausted after late Friday and Saturday nights, or early starts during the week. So when The Boss called me Sunday afternoon, it wasn't with good news. He was looking for volunteers for a pick-up, transport to a concert in St Petersburg, wait, and return. A good trip, normally, with nice customers.

Good, that is, if I wasn't operating on ten hours sleep in the previous forty-eight.

It's a Catch-22. If we don't do the last-minute jobs when he asks, The Boss will hire more drivers, which means everyone earns less money. If we do the jobs, he will continue to expect us to do them, exhausted or not.

I did the job. It went without a hitch. And this sunset was my reward. Thank you St Pete.

I slept all day Tuesday.

Miami

Miami and I have a stressful relationship. She tries to get me lost, ding the car and intimidate me. I try to get where I'm going on time, without mishap, and stay safe.

It's what professionals call a dysfunctional multi-factor cluster-fuck.

What is it about Miami? Why anyone would want to live there is beyond me, and visitors need psychiatric help. Seriously. Miami is a high-crime drainage ditch. The worst drivers in North America add piquancy to the whole mess. Maybe everyone is coked-out there, and I'm the only straight person. That would explain it.

Being a three-hour drive away doesn't help. By the time we've reached the Devil City, it's time for a bathroom break, a coffee, and a stretch. Unfortunately, finding the outskirts means the fun has just started. Blocked streets are normal. Suicidal driving (fast AND slow) is de rigueur, and there is a simmering low-level malevolence in the air.

And yet I tell The Boss that I like the trips there. For one thing, I'd rather be driving a decent distance than hanging around locally. And for another, I'm up for the challenge of finding my way around an unfamiliar and difficult place. I'm determined not to let her beat me. And one day I'll have enough time to take some photographs.

For now I'm just happy surviving to tell the stories.

Low Expectations

As in life, nothing in the limo game ever works the way you think it will. Take last Monday night. The Boss rang me in the late afternoon, inquiring as to whether I wanted to do a late-night limousine run (as opposed to an airport collection.) This type of job pays better: the bigger car pays more, the pay is hourly rather than flat, and drinking customers usually means a bigger tip.
Okay, I said, I'll do it.

Then the bad news.

It's a bunch of young guys taking an Army buddy out before he goes back to the Middle East. Starting at 11:00 pm. With a pickup at a nearby mall.

Shit. Sounds dodgy to me. Best take the .38.

It's also likely to mean a BIG mess, BIG drunkenness, BIG male behaviour.

The only part that came to pass was the BIG drunkenness. The guys were vastly amusing, very polite and friendly to me, and made my life as easy as possible.

Yet another case of my expectations being wrong.

The guy going back for another tour in Iraq was in uniform, and the way in which he was received everywhere he went was fan.tastic. People at the casino wanted his photograph. Women practically humped him in the street. Men bought him drinks. And at the strip club...

...but that's another story.

Dog day flatulence

What: Sedan trip from the west coast of Florida to the east coast.

When: One day last week.

Who: Eighty-eight year old woman.

Why: Returning from the vacation condo to the real home.

With: Her uncontrollable hound.

Highlight: Her inability to stop talking about how wealthy she is.

Lowlight: Increasingly flatulent dog. Seriously. After four hours, it was still outgassing.

What kept me sane: Figuring if both scents of farts were pooch originated, or whether she was playing fart tennis with the dog.

Conclusion: Old women should not be foisted upon innocent limousine drivers, cross-country jaunts are only fun with friends, and flatulent dogs should be FedExed.

Virgin Limousine Sex

A curious motion sets up when a six-feet three, two hundred pound man starts vigorously thrusting into his wife in the back of a six-passenger Cadillac limousine. It's like a small boat caught in a swell, pushed forward one second, rearing back the next.

I know this because I witnessed it last night. Mr Bob ____________of ___ ______ _______, Florida, arranged for a limousine and a celebratory dinner. The occasion was his fifteenth wedding anniversary, a night he and his wife, Trudy ________ of the same address marked with a robust session of in-car fucking.

When he said, after dinner, "...take the long way home....and don't speed..." it was clear what they were up to. With the privacy divider deployed and sufficient alcohol to overcome any coyness, they were into it before you could say "Exit I-275 Southbound."

They rocked the limousine on its springs for about five miles before I thought the deed was complete. My silent laughter was shortlived, however, because that thing started humpin' about twenty minutes later....and again not so long after that.

She enjoyed every minute from what I could figure out, although at peak excitement the similarity of her cries to a love-lorn chihuahua was slightly offputting.

So there. I am no longer a virgin limousine driver in the on-board sex department. It does happen.

Old Glory

So, what part of England are you from?

I'm not from England, I'm from Australia.

Oh. Really? What are you doing here?

I won a lottery to become a permanent resident alien.

Is that like that movie? Being an alien? * laughing at their joke *

Oh, yes, in Australia, women often have slimy be-toothed creatures emerge from their abdomen. * laughter, sometimes *

Yes, but why did you move here?

For the opportunity. This is still the best country in the world.

Yes, but....* awkward silence as they think about what to say next *...things aren't very good here now, you know...* drifting off *

Well, ma'am, like most immigrants, I have a more optimistic view about these things.



Fifteen minutes later I pull up to their private jet sitting on the apron and unload the stack of designer luggage while the pilots fawn over them. They're off to St Thomas for the week.


Yeah, things aren't very good here.

Gasoline Alley

Not so long ago, when I was living in Seattle, gas was a buck fifty a gallon. How things change.

Fortunately, the price of gasoline doesn't affect my pocket directly in the limo game. The company absorbs that cost, but even so, it's smart to find the lowest price. The one exception is Citgo stations. Sending money to a repressive arsehole like Hugo Chavez is counterproductive, unless you're an advocate of turning democracies into dictatorships.

My choice of where to refuel the car isn't just based on the price. The trend towards gas stations becoming fast-food and grocery stops appears to be accelerating, which is a good thing for me. Coffee is the big thing now. New stations have enormous coffee centres, with pretty decent quality black stuff too. That is often accompanied by the Krispy Kreme fat case, a temptation I'm proud to say I almost always avoid.

One of our regular limousine customers builds and operates such places. He and his wife are very down-to-earth people, a delight to drive. They confirmed that gasoline sales basically only break-even, and that their profit is derived mostly from sales in the store. Soft drinks, beer and (no surprise) coffee. Funny how business works.

Then again, they must be selling a lot of coffee, because they have just finished building an eight million dollar house in California wine country. Maybe the gas does more than break even.

Every child needs a father

*

There are instants of clarity in life - even Limousine Life - that only the camera can catch.

I spied these two funsters sitting atop their car and immediately saw the message: this is what dads are for.

Dads say Hey, lets jump on the roof and see what we can see!

And that's why they are so important.








*Another photograph from the Tampa airport cellphone lot.

Origami

Last evening I spent three hours in the back of one of our cars. It wasn't glamorous, there was no booze involved, but it was a productive time nevertheless.

A large hotel chain had a cocktail party launching their planned hotel and condo complex out on one of the keys. I was there in an eleven-seat limousine as a static prop for a magnetic sign advertising the place. Apparently large white cars used as billboards get passersby to part with three quarters of a million dollars.

This was the easiest gig in the world: three hours, no driving, no CUSTOMERS and nothing to do. So I cranked up the air, rolled up my sleeves and went about cleaning the interior of that thing with a vengeance.

No-one could see in, thanks to tinted windows and strong sunlight, although it must have looked odd with the thing bouncing on its springs while the engine ran the air conditioner. Oh well.

The final touch that makes The Boss happy is well presented glasses. That means making nice with the decorations.

Here's the result. Looks pretty good, I think. And I have a new skill: origami with multiple napkins.

Yay me.

Cruising boink

What a difference a week makes.

After the messy start to their vacation, the eighty-something couple eventually arrived back in Tampa last Sunday morning. I was schedule to collect them. Something must have happened onboard that ship. It might have been the sea air, the cheap booze or even the Mexican food, but they were a different pair.

When we left, Matt was dressed in a vest and cargo shorts, black socks and brown lace-up shoes. His wife was in expando-pants and droopy top. Altogether uninspiring.

Looking for similarly attired people at the pick-up point, I hardly recognized them. Matt was in stylish white jeans, short-sleeved shirt and natty shoes. His wife (I can't remember her name) was looking almost hot (in an eighty-something Florida way). Not only were they looking tanned and chic, but there was something in the air. And it wasn't just her new perfume.

Yep, I think Mr and Mrs had revisited the carnal side of their relationship. There is an air about a guy when he's proven his manliness again, and Matt had it. He swaggered. And she was kittenish, not a bad feat for an arthritic oldster.

Anyway, it was a fantastic advertisement for the cruise line, and one I'll be bearing in mind in the coming decades.

I can't believe I wrote that.

Clean

The Boss is obsessed with the cleanliness of his cars. Not the inside, mind you. That he could give two hoots about, but all the cars' outsides are cleaned at least twice a week.

The theory is that at the end of each run, we drivers will clean the interior of our car. Therefore, Bossman need not spend money on it, as it is in our interest (read: larger tips) if the customer thinks he is travelling in a sparkling environment.

Two problems with this:

One is that everybody has a different standard of cleanliness.

The other is that the link between freshly cleaned carpet and tip size is weak.

If it was Wombat's Limousine Service, I would worry less about the way the cars look to everyone else, and spend much more on keeping the insides looking and smelling pristine. That is what the customer sees most of; the seat backs, the cabinets and the carpets. Surely this is where to make an impression.

There is only one other driver apart from me who I know cleans after each run. Apparently all the others cannot see white sand on black carpet - and all the cars have black carpet.

Truthfully, our shop vacuum really isn't up to the job. Poor thing should have retired years ago. Sometimes I understand why drivers just don't bother.

Hot Florida Days

Uh, oh.

I had just reversed into my Sunday morning customer's drive.

They need to be on a cruise ship in three hours.

There was steam billowing from the engine that I wasn't quick enough to photograph.




There's no way this is good.

I call The Boss, and he says to remove the cap of the coolant tank.

The caption specifically says not to remove it when hot.



Decide to look under car, and notice drain full of (rusty looking) hot coolant.

Call Boss back, and suggest that a rescue driver and a tow truck is probably more appropriate than a Wombat battlefield repair.



Yes, my eighty-something couple boarded the cruise, with thirty minutes to spare.

All in a day's work.

Speak when spoken to

In my former life, I worked for a company that provided taxi and limousine transport for its employees. Once the ego-high of being driven around the place wears off, it becomes routine and just another part of the drudgery of making a living.

As I remember, the limousine drivers were all good guys and girls, who stuck by a maxim I now use: speak when you are spoken too, converse when the customer converses, and remain silent when they do. Simple, right? Not necessarily.

It is easy to slip into the conversational habit of talking about yourself when a customer gets chatty. But the relationship is very different than if you and I were talking. The limo customer truly isn't interested in what I think, unless they specifically ask. The best response comes when I keep the conversation centred around them. It's a basic technique of reflecting what they say back to them, and asking open-ended questions.

Occasionally, someone will connect on a personal level, at which point it's clear that they want my opinion. But most people don't get my humour, so I gave up doing my bits in the first month.

It's the constriction of the role that is the problem - the context. People see a driver as only a driver. And what driver could possibly know more than sports, weather, and road conditions? Revealing interesting experiences from my life flummoxes them, because it jars with their vision of what a driver should be.

So much of my time is spent biting my tongue, smiling, and licking arse, like every other working stiff.

Who are you? Why do you drive so poorly?

Put me behind a car on the Interstate, and I can tell you - with 90% accuracy - the sex, ethnicity and age of the driver. Not only that, but I'll tell you if they're using a cellphone, although deciphering their service provider is more difficult.

Now that I'm a professional road user, I can look down haughtily upon my fellow travellers. With a keen eye for detail, deducing basic facts about people from the model and age of car is infant's recreation. The manner in which people careen about the place is a dead give-away; combine the two and you have an unbeatable system.

Late model Camry in the fast lane steadfastly doing two mph under the speed limit?

White male over 55.

New Honda Civic changing lanes erratically at ten mph over?

Female on cellphone under age 27.

Tricked out eighties GM product, driver so far back he's practically in the rear seat?

Black male under 35.

This is too easy. I need a challenge.

Driving Threads

At The Boss's Limousine Service, the stated uniform is black suit, black tie, black shoes and white shirt.

I am the only mug in Bossman's memory who actually took this to heart. On the day he gave me the job, I duly purchased a (cheap, oversize) black suit. Nobody employed since has done anything like that.

Susan, until this week our only female chauffeur, sports what amounts to a tuxedo when she drives. Black trousers, black waist-length jacket, white shirt with studs and a bowtie. Frankly I think the stiff shirt and bowtie are over-the-top, but she always looks the business.

Today, I want to present the best looking limousine drivers I have yet seen. These guys were in the west coast of Florida's limousine Mecca: the cellphone waiting lot at Tampa airport. Glamorous, eh?

As I drove in, their cool threads and Crockett and Tubbs demenour shouted at me to take their photo. So I did.



What other blogs are saying: Crockett and Tubbs, the tuxedo, bowtie Joe.

People are people

The reason I started in the limousine game in the first place was to meet people.

Working at home, alone, was driving me slowly insane. In the absence of anything resembling a social life, taking an evening and weekend job was logical. Although I rant a little here, I'm glad of the experience. Doing something outside my comfort zone is good for my brain, creating new pathways or synapse links or whatever the heck happens up there.

People are the upside and the downside of life. People can make your day, and people can ruin your day (if you allow them). Driving has meant I have met people I would never have found before, and every new person gives a slightly different slant on life.

At one point I thought I was a good judge of character, but now I know different. In fact, I have stopped judging people altogether, given how past snap decisions have done them and me a disservice. Thesedays I simply watch, observe, look, question and remain neutral.

After a while, people will show you their true nature.

Glass cleaning facilities

For those of you with strong constitutions, this is where the limousine glasses are washed.



And here is where they are dried.



Just so that you don't think I'm part of this conspiracy, I take my own dish cloths, so at least the last part of the process is hygienic.

Mind reading

Reading other people's minds is one of the many skills the professional limousine driver needs to succeed in his chosen field.

It works like this. You will collect a couple, or three, or four, knowing that they want to start their evening at a particular restaurant or bar. On Harry's trip sheet, it's usually referred to as:

Take from residence to Mongrel Grill for dinner, then as directed.

It's the "as directed" part that sometimes gets messed up.

You know you're in for a big night when they say, Nah, forget about the Mongrel Grill, we don't want to go there. Where's the action in town tonight? Take us there.

Great. Now I'm responsible for the success or failure of their evening, with the resulting effect on everyone's mood. In this part of Florida there IS nowhere to go on a Tuesday night. Alright, maybe a handful of places that might have some live music and atmosphere, but come on people, the average age here is 231. Dinner service is over at most places by 6:45.

Once they've had a few adult beverages, things loosen up. They usually start being more chatty, but also more forgetful. I receive the call to collect them from one place, and everyone piles in. I often just start driving, because it's not my position to start demanding answers. At some point, someone will shout "Hey, where are you going?" to which I always say, "Sir, wherever you want." Some form of instruction usually follows.

WHY DON'T YOU JUST TELL ME WHERE YOU WANT TO GO WHILE I'M HOLDING THE DOOR OPEN FOR YOU, YOU IDIOT?

Boy, that feels better.

What's worse than a fool? A drunk fool in a limousine.

Don't use limousine glasses

All I'm saying is, if you're ever in a limousine, use plastic cups or bring your own.

That's all.








Hint: Do you know how they're washed?

Arriba!

Question: How many people can you fit into this limousine?

Answer: 24.

It's completely illegal, of course, as the beast is only licensed for 16 punters. But when it's a sunny Saturday and the event is a Mexican wedding, then who am I to be the Limousine Grinch?

I'm rapidly learning that different cultures have remarkably different norms, especially in social situations. Mexican folks apparently don't put much stock in the tradition of the bride being given away by her father. I was chatting to the father - well, trying to understand him, as I don't speak Spanish - beforehand, and the gist of it was that his role was limited. It was her mother we had to wait for at the church, and it was her mother who gave the final assent for the hitching to go ahead.

It was a Catholic ceremony, as one would expect. The groom, when he appeared with his new bride an hour and a half later, looked as if he had seen a ghost. He honestly seemed shell-shocked: blank faced, silent, wide-eyed. It was as if he was a wild animal freshly captured for the amusement of everyone else.

Rather an apt metaphor for his wedding day don't you think?

The funniest part of the day was the "videographer." This guy ran the entire show, choreographing the arrival of the limousine, the opening and closing of doors and pretty much everything else. When the wedding party emerged from the chapel he shooed them all back inside so he could get a better angle.

In twenty years the happy couple will relive it and marvel at how wonderful everything was. But on the day they were tired, hungry, stressed and feeling powerless. At least we stopped for cokes and corn chips on the way to the reception. That cheered everyone up no end.

Technorati: Weddings, Limousine Life, Marriage, Mexicans.

People lie

People lie. There's no way around it, they lie to themselves, and they lie to their limousine driver.

The lies start small, and expand like insulating foam to fill the void. A common lie is "Oh, we'll only be four hours, we want to be home by nine-thirty."

This one happened Monday night. A man celebrating his 34th birthday with his wife and some friends began with the intention of being home early.

At 1:30 am, while I was in the car park of Cheetahs, I contemplated the change of mind. All along they knew it was to be a big night, but couldn't bring themselves to admit it. When I collected them at 5:30 pm, and dropped their kids at Grandma's place, it was clear they were out to do some damage. Especially the wife.

The other big lie that starts small is "We're going to be the easiest customers you ever had."

This, more than any other statement, puts me on edge. Why? Because one man's "easy" is another man's two hours on the back of the clock cleaning up the shit left by ferals lucky enough to scrape up the four hundred bucks to hire me for five hours.

These people use every glass in the limousine. They smoke. They put their feet on the ceiling - don't ask me why. They insert crushed Goldfish into every seat crevice and still complain that the radio doesn't tune correctly.

"You've been great," they say, handing me a five and five ones. "Next time, we're gonna ask for you." * hic *

Yessir, and next time I'm unavailable.

Strippers to Miami (the whole story)

Can you go to Miami tonight? Harry, breathless as ever when there's a sniff of easy money.

Sure, who's the customer?

There's a lady you're taking to the Ritz-Carlton, just pick her up and drive her there, I've already run the credit card. Her boyfriend is paying, he's really missing her.

Boyfriend? Really?

Just get to the office, I'll tell you more when you get here.

He really must have been missing her, because Harry charged him $400, a pretty decent innings even when you take out my cut, the gas and the tolls.

Unfortunately, the story isn't quite as romantic as it appears. The young lady concerned was polite enough when I collected her, and she brought a friend. A very unhappy looking younger friend, I might add, whose own boyfriend was not pleased she was leaving. He gave me the stink eye, to which my response was to give him one of Harry's cards, breezily telling him that any limousine hire he needed, we wanted the business.

Once under way, Beverly was on the phone. We found out that she:

-> Worked at Cheetahs (a strip joint), but didn't really like it as much as her old club.

-> Had left her six month-old son to undertake this desperate journey.

-> The 'boyfriend' in Miami was some rich dude she'd met whilst stripping.

My guess at her age, confirmed by the driver who brought them back, was that she was 21, and the friend was 20.

I'm never sure of the current PC way to view strippers. Should we laud them for being independent women, living out their dreams, having complete control over their lives and bodies?

Or should we see them as victims of oppressive men, exploited for sex and their sexuality, unable to find decent paid work that an equivalent male would get easily?

Frankly, I couldn't help but think of her baby. If you're a father, you know you've fucked up when you find out your daughter's a stripper. If you're the child of a stripper, what do you think? In any case, the child obviously had no dad, and that is the worst part of the entire tale.

So, yes, I took two strippers to Miami, but it was a lesson in irresponsibility and the frailty of man. No glamour there.

Technorati: Limousine Life, Strippers, Miami, Boyfriends.

Coffee. The limousine driver's lifeblood.

Weird, long hours and a need to stay (somewhat) alert inevitably leads to drinking way too much coffee. We limousine chauffeurs are constantly balancing the diuretic effect of caffeine against its pepping-up effect. Like any drug, it has an upside and a fucked-upside.

But that's not what I would like to discuss today. I'd like to explore the staining effect of spilt coffee on a crisp white chauffeur's shirt, and the ways beverage cups help avoid or promote this problem.

Exhibit One: Seven-Eleven 16 oz Decaf.

This is the best take-out coffee lid. No surprise, this thing looks like an adult sippy cup. Note the lip-shaped raised mouthpiece and replaceable cover in case of turbulence. Pity the coffee's so awful, although for $1.29 what can you expect?



Exhibit Two: McDonalds Large Regular Coffee with One Cream.

In second place is the McDonald's distinctive black lid with brown cup. This too has a resealable cover for the...er...hole, and a reasonably shaped mouthpiece. Despite its lowly parenthood, the coffee's pretty good, and I believe Mickey D's is about to take on Starbucks in a big way. For less than two bucks, this represents top value, and won't stain your shirt.



Where would a discussion of coffee be without the venerable Starbucks? Frankly, everything about this thing is wrong. The cup burns your hand without one of those ridiculous sleeves. The price for regular filter coffee is exorbitant. And the lid. That lid is what inspired me to write about these things. That execrable thing is guaranteed to put fifty cents worth of brown stuff all over your shirt and tie while driving to pick up a big-time customer.

Damn thee, Starbucks, damn thee Howard Shultz, damn thee Mr Solo, the lid vendor. Traveler lid my arse.

Exhibit Three: Starbucks 12 oz Regular Decaf with a Room aka stupid in a cup.



What other blogs are saying: That better be a good coffee, the chauffeur stage of motherhood, no sense of decorum, that driver, sippy coffee zeitgeist.

Fading Brands

Harry has three different brands of limousines in his stable; Lincolns, Cadillacs, and one stretch Excursion. In order, made by Ford, General Motors and Ford again. And they're all pieces of shit.

The Lincolns are the best of the lot, but only by a small margin. Their engines are agricultural, the air-conditioning is cantankerous and overly complicated, and they all have problems with front disc rotor warping. The windscreen wipers are straight out of the 1930s. Useless.

The Cadillacs are even worse. They're prone to stalling unexpectedly, and the check engine light is permanently illuminated. If there is a real problem under the hood, there will be no way of knowing. The worst thing is that they both have terrible front-wheel shimmy at moderate to high speeds. It must be bloody unnerving for the customers, but after telling Harry many times now, he still hasn't fixed it.

I asked him whether he ever takes his own cars out for a test drive, and he looked at me like I was made of green slime.

I suggested to Harry that he'd be much better off with a fleet of used Lexuss (Lexii?) because they're completely bulletproof, and supremely comfortable. Unfortunately, his hands are tied. To work in Hillsborough County, where Tampa Airport lives, limousine services can only use American branded cars.

Strange but true. The county determines what equipment the limousine entrepreneur can use.

It's probably the only way US car companies can survive, given how they've been ruined by greedy unions and moronic management for so long. Like the fading politicians in the photo, Chevrolet and its cousins are deservedly dying brands.


Technorati: Fading Brands, US Cars Suck, Government Corruption, Limousines.

Strippers to Miami

If I didn't have to work tonight, I would tell you about the "rush delivery" I made last Thursday: two strippers from the sleepy side of Florida to Miami.

FedEx might do parcels, but we at The Boss's Limousine deliver the flesh.

What's their tracking code, I wonder?

Packing heat, brother

Even in my snoozy Gulf-side town, there is a bad neighbourhood problem. Naturally, that's where The Boss's office and warehouse resides, because it's cheap, and he's cheap. Late at night, after the clients are dropped off, we chauffeurs still have work to do. The car must be refueled, cleaned and prepared for the next adventure. It's a complete pain in the butt after a long day, I can tell you, a chore made worse by the lowlife pondscum hanging around the place.

Soon after I started driving, it was clear that these very late night stops at even well-lit gas stations were the points of greatest risk. The ones closest to our place are the worst of the worst, and yet we are obliged to use them. They are populated with a mix of the drugged, the drunk, the indigent, the violent and the criminal. The individuals who worry me most are the drunk mental cases, who are likely schizophrenic. Who knows what the voices will tell them to do next.

I have discovered that the single best determinant for a bad neighbourhood is adult men riding bicycles at night. Think about it: it is 3:00 am, when normal people are at home in bed. If men, and not just one or two, are riding around fully awake at that time of the night, what the heck are they doing?

No good, says I. Which is why I bought, and carry, a gun, in case one of those motherfuckers decides to try something.

Technorati: Bad Neighbourhood, Limousine Life, Motherfuckers, Men on Bicycles.

We want our tip back

Here's how it works: for fixed-price jobs, mostly airport runs, drivers receive a fixed amount. For hourly runs, drivers receive an hourly amount.

That's simple enough. Where it gets sloppy is in the tipping. Because the limousine business is cut-throat, all the company websites say "gratuity included".

Wrong. Basically it's a ruse in which drivers are screwed at the hands of the operators. It's an attempt to attract the marginal business that can stretch to taking a limousine rather than a taxi, as long as there are no extra costs.

It was inevitable that eventually The Boss would call me. A seemingly pleasant couple from Savannah hired us to drive them from Tampa to their beach resort. I was fortunate enough to collect them. We appeared to get along famously, and, because they were so nice, we stopped twice -that is two times in a one-hour journey - so they could have their cigarettes. No smoking in the cars, you see.

Remember that I'm on a fixed dollar reward here, so the extra hour we spent accumulating them cancer points was effectively on my dime. The gentleman was kind enough to palm me twenty dollars upon arrival, and we parted in good humour.

Now they where asking Bossman for their tip back. After checking the website, they figured I had ripped them off. They wanted me to drive to their hotel, and leave the double note with the front desk.

There's a part of me that is happy they smoke.


Technorati: Tipping, Limousine Life, Money, Marginal Business.

Coping with a wide stance

Spending large amounts of time away from home as I do, finding nice facilities assumes some importance. Coffee can be your enemy. Mexican food can also be your enemy. But when you have to go, you have to go. Knowing in advance where the clean, quiet public crappers are, takes.......a load off.

Men's rooms at airports have a different feeling thesdays. After a United States senator allegedly went looking for homosexual sex in Minneapolis, I'm leery of - how can I put this delicately - attending, unless absolutely necessary.

So it was with great happiness that I discovered the Marriott hotel attached to Tampa airport has superior rest rooms. As any international traveller knows, if you want a peaceful, relaxing experience, find a large American style hostelry, where clean porcelain and real hand-towels await.

Best of all, one can have the entire room to onesself, negating the potentially dangerous consequences of having a wide stance.

Here is a picture of some graffiti from the Marriott, fully representative of all male toilet art. Classy, isn't it?




Technorati: Wombat has a wide stance, Limousine Life, Bathroom Graffiti, Crappers.

The Blind leading the Wombat

Early evening of Thanksgiving Day last year, I idled up the driveway of a large house near the beach. The Boss insists that we are at least ten minutes early for pickups. And so I was.

Unusually, there was a knot of people waiting.

Good evening, I said to the middle-aged man. I am Wombat from The Boss's Limousine service.

Hello Wombat, I am Stuart Little, thank you for being so prompt.

You're welcome sir.

You know you're taking my mother back to St Petersburg?

Yessir, I have the address.

Good, I'll just go get her. Oh, by the way she's blind.

She was indeed a blind woman, white cane and all, but certainly didn't need the help of all fifteen members of the family to negotiate the stairs down to my car.

As I opened the rear door, she asked where she needed to sit, and I said to her:

I have opened the right rear door, ma'am, that will give you the most comfortable ride with the most legroom.

I want to sit in the front with you. I like knowing where I'm going.

Very good ma'am, just let me adjust the seat.

And with that she plonked herself up with me.

As I was about to leave, the son leant in close and whispered,

If you get lost, she'll tell you the way.

Which is exactly what she did. I described every intersection to her as we approached and she gave precise guidance to the front door of her nursing home.

If only the sighted people could give equally coherent directions.

The drawing of life metaphors I'll leave to you.

Technorati: Blind, Limousine Life, Giving Directions, Braille.

Doctor, heal thyself

In south-west Florida, where I live, there's big business in plastic surgery. Let me amend that: there's big business in all medical procedures. This guy, along with many of his colleagues, even advertises on billboards, in case you have urgent need for sterilization as you drive the interstate.

Doctors, therefore, form a considerable chunk of The Boss's Limousine's clientele, a mixed blessing for we drivers. The qualities you want in a medical professional often make them pains in the arse as passengers - decisiveness, attention to detail and thoroughness are great in the operating room. In the back seat of a limousine those characteristics become peremptory, crabby and thoroughgoing, which makes for a horrible drive.

Prior to collecting one doctor, a woman, from Tampa airport, The Boss said to be careful, because none of the other drivers liked her. Jessica, our only lesbian chauffeur, even called her a cow - in fact, she called her a fucking cow. Holding my sign at the base of the escalators, Madam Doctor made herself known, and I nearly burst out laughing. She had one of the worst face-lifts I have ever seen, rivalling even this little shop of horrors.


In one of God's little jokes, it turned out that she is herself a plastic surgeon, a decision she must contemplate with irony looking in the mirror every morning.

My laughter soon turned to salty tears as she berated me first for activating the air conditioning, and then for the roadworks that were slowing our progress along I-275.

"How long will this last for?" she asked in exasperated tone.

"I'm sorry Doctor Botch, I'll phone the folks in charge and get it stopped immediately."

As I said, simultaneously controlling, impatient and stupid. Just what you want in your medical professional.

What other blogs are saying: Doctors are arseholes, plastic surgery isn't an answer.

Technorati: Vasectomy, Doctors are Arseholes, Cosmetic Surgery, Limousines.

Middle-aged hetero-lesbianism

There is a particular combination of people and circumstance that makes for a good night's limousine driving.

The people need to be rich enough not to notice the $78 per hour rate for a car exactly like the one above. They need to be relaxed enough to be looking for a good time, so preferably they're not going to a formal event. And they need to drink.

So it was with great happiness I collected two couples from a town an hour south, noting they were casually dressed, and came equipped with a well-provisioned cooler, to wit: beer, wine, vodka, bourbon and B&B. These folks were in for a good time.

Just how good a time became clear after the dinner stop. (We first went to a sunset drinks place, then a tiki bar, so they were fairly humming by then.) The conversation had gone from mildly rude to flat out pornographic. (It's always interesting to note the progression of these things, and how alcohol is both a truth serum and horn-dog releaser.)

The guys were almost as keen as the women to snap photos of the wives kissing each other. Fifteen minutes of sophomoric screaming later the deed was done, the blokes had witnessed their wives demonstrate lesbonicness. Not that I saw any of this, mind you. My evidence is strictly aural, because they didn't raise the privacy screen and I wasn't interested in looking. It's possible that was part of the game, to "do it" in front of the driver.

Wow, daring.

It's amazing what people reveal when they think no-one is listening. I learnt that both the women were running commando, that they had made several novelty purchases in the sex-toy dept in the last week, and that they both wanted to buy strap-ons to "do him" so he knows what it feels like (presumably pointing at husbands.) (The husbands, for the record, weren't keen.)

That's the end of the tale, although they spent most of the hour home taking more pics of the women topless, bottomless, headless and - for all I know - in coitus, but I had completely lost interest by then.

Whatever it is about limousines that inspires people to get their hump on, I heartily encourage it. A $150 tip will do that to you.


Technorati: Limousine Life, Lesbonic, Strap-on, Getting your hump on.